


Somewhere Between Perception and Reality

by Spikedluv



Category: Numb3rs, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Incest, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sibling Incest, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam’s next hunt takes them to LA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Between Perception and Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Written for numb3rsflashfic Challenge #32: Supernatural. Yeah, I’ve really been working on it that long and it is so not a FLASHfic anymore. cassanlynx (and Nightshifter) is totally to blame for this.
> 
> Through Numb3rs 3.13 Finders Keepers; through SPN 2.13 Houses of the Holy.
> 
> Written: March 11, 2007

Prologue: Providence, RI

“Hey!” Dean grabbed the wadded up cheeseburger wrapper Sam had just bounced off his forehead and lobbed it back at him. Sam’s dark head had been bent over the laptop when Dean returned with dinner, and he hadn’t looked up when Dean set the food in front of him and told him to eat, so Dean was surprised to realize that at some point Sam had emerged from his computer-induced trance long enough to discover the food and eat it.

Sam batted the wrapper away with an easy swat of his hand, which just got Dean even more annoyed. “What the hell was that for?”

“I’ve been calling your name, Dean, but you’ve been too engrossed in . . . . What is it you’re watching, anyway?” Sam stared at the television screen for a moment, and then his eyes went big and round. “Is that Molly Ringwald?”

Dean fumbled around on the bed until he found the remote, thumbed the television off. “I wasn’t really paying attention, just got tired of flipping the channels.”

“Uh huh.”

In a blatant attempt at misdirection, Dean said, “So what did you want?”

Sam gave him a long, appraising look before he said, “I think I’ve found something.”

“It’s about time.” Dean was sick of staring at these same four walls. Though he was going to miss those magic fingers. And if Sam was honest, he would, too. “Where we going?”

“LA.”

“LA?” That was all the way on the other side of the country. “Geez, Sam, couldn’t you have found something any further away?”

Dean wasn’t really complaining; he loved to drive. And he’d go anywhere as long as it got Sam away from this place where his faith had been tested and found lacking, if not completely shattered.

“Quit your bitching. I thought you wanted to get out of here.”

“I do. So tell me what you found.”

Dean opened another of the Little Debbie snack cakes he’d gotten when he’d stopped at the gas station during his take-out run. He stuffed the entire thing into his mouth, and only then realized that Sam was staring at him instead of running off at the mouth about whatever spirit or zombie or vampire he’d come across out in LA. “What?” Pieces of snack cake flew everywhere.

Sam snorted and shook his head. “That’s disgusting, man.”

Dean grinned as he chewed, unrepentant. He licked his lips to get any cream or crumbs he might have missed, then said, “That’s not what you were saying last night, Sammy.” Dean could see the flush on Sam’s skin from all the way across the room. Score! He added a point for his side to the mental tally in his head.

Sam looked down at the computer screen Dean doubted he needed to reference, and cleared his throat. “Anyway, there have been three mysterious deaths in LA over the past six months.”

“Wow, three unsolved deaths in LA. That is a shocker.” Dean reached into the bag and debated, yellow sponge cake or chocolate?

“I didn’t say ‘unsolved’, wise ass. Though they are, or rather, they weren’t considered suspicious. No evidence of foul play.”

“But you disagree.” It wasn’t a question. Sam had that look he always got when he’d caught the scent of something out of the ordinary.

Sam licked the salt off his fingers from the last of his fries and took a drink of soda before he responded. “Like I said, I think they’re mysterious.” Sam tossed his trash into the small garbage can he’d moved near the table, then shifted on the chair so he was facing Dean while he laid out his findings. “Three healthy men suddenly dropped dead of heart attacks after exhibiting symptoms of exhaustion. No suspicious markings or bruises on their bodies except for a small red mark on their chest, sort of like a birthmark. However, each of the deceased men’s significant others - wife, girlfriend and, in one case, boyfriend - claim they didn’t have any type of marks on their chests before they got sick.”

Dean perked up. If Sam was right, this was something they hadn’t faced before. “So, let me get this straight.” Dean held up the hand not currently fondling a sponge cake and ticked off the items on his fingers. “Otherwise healthy men, exhaustion followed by death, unexplained red mark on the chest. Hmm. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends. If you’re thinking succubus, yes, if you’re thinking anything that has to do with magic fingers or snack food, no.”

Dean grinned. Oh, yeah, no matter what he said to the contrary, Sam liked the magic fingers. And Dean knew from experience that Sam wasn’t averse to the things Dean could do with the snack cakes, either. It was going to be difficult to _not_ think about it now that Sam had brought it up, but Dean figured the wait would be worth it. “You figure out how to kill it yet?”

Sam held their father’s journal up, then tossed it to Dean across the small space separating them. “Thought I’d leave something for you to do, bro.”

Dean sighed and reluctantly set the grocery bag aside. He’d forgo the cream-filled goodness if it got them out of here sooner. He flipped through the journal, looking for a reference to succubus, which he was certain he’d seen before when they’d been searching for something else. “What if it turns out to be nothing?” Sam wasn’t usually wrong about these things, but it _was_ a long drive to LA.

“Then we can spend a couple of days relaxing at the beach,” Sam said. “Not like we couldn’t use the downtime.”

Especially Sam, Dean thought, but he couldn’t resist poking him a little bit. “You do realize that it’s not really warm there right now, right?”

“Better than shoveling out from under a couple feet of snow,” Sam retorted.

Sam had him there. “True. Okay, so where to do we start when we get there? These guys all had wives or, uh, significant others, you said?”

“Yeah, but we should start at CalSci.”

“Why CalSci?”

“Because all three victims had ties there. One was a professor, one worked in the admissions office, and the other was a student.”

“That’s a pretty big connection between the vics. No one else caught it?”

Sam shrugged. “Either they didn’t catch it, or they didn’t think it was important.”

“Hmm.” Dean nodded, then gave Sam his best evil eye. “And you were gonna tell me about this when?”

Looking overly pleased with himself, Sam grinned. “I’m telling you now.”

“Uh huh.” In retaliation, Dean shoved his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and jiggled the five bucks in quarters he’d gotten at the gas station.

Sam’s expression turned incredulous. “You didn’t.”

Dean grinned and raised his eyebrows at Sam, watched him pink up a little bit. Oh, yeah, he had plans for later, with Sam, the snack cakes, and the magic fingers. Dean frowned. Maybe he should have gotten a whole roll of quarters. Well, they’d make due. He dragged his attention back to his father’s journal.

“So this thing is loose on a college campus? Great. That sounds like a succubus’ wet dream. Heh, wet dreams all around.”

“Dean, it killed three people.”

Sometimes Sam got so serious, so focused, Dean wanted to shake his single-mindedness. “Good times right up til the end, though.”

Sam looked horrified. “You are seriously warped, you know that?”

Dean grinned. “Yep.”

“Are you seriously telling me it wouldn't creep you out to know that something had been inside your head, digging around until it found out what your deepest desire was, and then using it against you? I mean, even if it didn’t kill you, it’s a . . . a violation!”

Dean shuddered. No, he didn’t like the idea of anyone messing around inside his head, especially something that would use what it found to fuel dreams it fed off.

Sam looked vindicated, and a little bit relieved, at Dean’s reaction. “And the fact that these things can take on any human form means it could be anyone. Student, professor, janitor . . . .”

“Librarian.”

Sam glared at him. “Funny, Dean. All I’m saying is, it’s gonna make the search a little bit harder.”

“Easy would take all the fun out of it.”

Dean could _hear_ Sam rolling his eyes. “Whatever, man.” After a moment Sam added, “You know, these things can alter perception, so it could even be someone everyone just _thinks_ is the janitor.”

“Luckily we won’t be affected.”

“How do you know that?”

Dean didn’t know, so he did the next best thing and ignored Sam’s question. Before Sam could press him for an answer, Dean found the page he’d been looking for, skimmed it. Iron. “Found it. Looks like we’ll be hitting the hardware store on the way out of town.” He went back to the top of the page and read it through more carefully.

 

LA

Charlie was scowling at the whiteboard when Amita cleared her throat to get his attention. He turned around to find her perched on the corner of his desk. She waved and smiled at him.

“Hey, Charlie.”

“Amita! Sorry, I didn’t . . . .” He gestured toward the board. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I noticed.” She smiled when Charlie started to apologize again, waved it away. “That’s all right. What are you working on?” She studied the board. “Isn’t that the equation you were using to help Don on his last case?”

Charlie sighed as he turned back to the board. “Yeah, I just, I’m trying to figure out where I went wrong with it.” He used his thumb to rub out the portion of the equation he’d just added.

“What makes you think you went wrong with it?”

“Because it didn’t solve the case!” Charlie looked at the black stain on his thumb, resisted the urge to wipe it on his pants.

“No, pure chance solved that case.”

“Yeah.” Charlie punched one fisted hand into the palm of the other. “Dumb luck.”

“You heard Don, sometimes it just happens that way.”

“Yeah, I guess. I just . . .if I’d gotten the answer _sooner_ , or if I could have, you know, reduced the search area more, maybe then . . . .”

Amita slid off the desk and curled her fingers over Charlie’s shoulder, squeezed. “You can’t always be the hero, Charlie, life doesn’t work that way.”

“Hero? I’m not . . . . I don’t . . . . I just like being able to help Don.” Truth be told, Charlie liked the way Don looked at him when he came up with something that helped them solve their cases, liked the feeling he got low in his gut when Don would pat his shoulder, say, “Nice job, buddy, thanks.”

“They caught him, and the woman he attacked is going to be fine, that’s what’s important, right?”

“Yes, of course! Of course.” And it was. He knew that. He did. But the fact that they caught him because he had a sweet tooth and not because of Charlie’s genius mathematics niggled.

Amita checked her watch. “Hey, listen, I’ve got to get going, but I was wondering if you were free tonight, since you don’t have to run any more numbers for Don.”

“Tonight? Uh, yeah, yeah, tonight’s good. What did you have in mind?”

He and Amita had finally taken their relationship to a new level - making out on the couch, holding hands - which is what he’d been wanting, a normal relationship, but for some reason he’d been dragging his feet about taking it any further than that. Sometimes he wondered if normal would forever be out of his grasp, and how much of the blame for that could be laid at his own feet.

“I thought dinner and a movie. Maybe coffee at my place later.”

“Coffee?” Was that a euphemism? Amita just smiled in response, and Charlie decided that it was. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but said, “Yeah, that . . . dinner and a movie sounds great.”

“Okay, then.” Amita slid her hand down Charlie’s arm. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

*~*~*

  
Dean tossed the FBI badge to Sam over the roof of the car. Sam caught it, flipped it open, and grimaced at it before shoving it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “You see the irony here, right?”

Dean just grinned. Sam rolled his eyes. Sammy should know him well enough to not have to ask that.

Sam followed Dean across the campus lawn and up the steps of the health clinic. Thirty minutes - and two pretty ladies expecting Dean’s phone call - later they returned to the Impala with the information they needed. In addition to the three deaths they’d already known about, there had been nearly forty cases of exhaustion reported last semester. A dozen was the norm, and the clinic had reported the higher than average numbers to the administration, suggesting that they implement stress-reducing measures immediately.

Sam had folded the list of names the receptionist had been happy to print out and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d managed to give her a polite smile goodbye while she made eyes at Dean, but as soon as they were in the car Sam reached into Dean’s jacket pocket and pulled out the two post-it notes with the phone numbers on them, ripped them up, and scattered the pieces out the window in a shower of pink confetti.

“Hey!” Dean lunged across Sam and made a half-hearted grab for them. His lips were right next to Sam’s ear when he said, “I might have wanted to call one of them while we were in town.”

Dean pulled away, smirking at how easy it was to get Sam all worked up, but before he’d settled back into his own seat, Sam reached between Dean’s legs and squeezed.

“Fuck you, Dean.” Sam’s voice was harder than his grip.

Dean’s laugh turned into a groan and he let his head fall back against the headrest, looking at Sam through half-lidded eyes as he pushed into Sam’s hand. “Later. But only if you’re a good boy, Sammy.” Dean knew that Sam could see the effort it took for him to push Sam’s hand away. “Right now we’ve got work to do.”

“I hate you.”

Dean willed his erection down and managed a grin as he turned the key. “No you don’t.”

*~*~*

  
Charlie yawned. His date with Amita two nights ago had gone fine. They’d had a good time at dinner - the food had been delicious, the service excellent, and most importantly, there had been no awkward silences - and the movie they’d chosen to see, _Freedom Writers_ , had been interesting. Though Charlie hadn’t thought they’d stayed up that late talking after Amita had invited him up for coffee, he couldn’t seem to shake the fatigue that had been plaguing him ever since he’d fallen asleep on her couch.

Nor could he forget the dream that had brought him awake, shaking as he came in his pants, and caused him to sneak out in the night, agitated and embarrassed, without even leaving a note for Amita. Each time he’d run into her since that night, Charlie had felt discomfited by her presence and quickly found an excuse to be elsewhere. Not the best way to nurture a relationship, he thought, irritated with his own inability to commit to Amita. If Charlie had ever wondered whether his abnormal desires had lessened over the years, his dream was evidence that they hadn’t.

He was mid-yawn when the knock sounded on his door. Charlie completed the yawn with a snap of his jaw, then called out, “Come in!”

The door was pushed open and two young men in dark suits stepped into his office. The one standing on the right, who had lighter, shorter hair and wore a slight grimace as he tried to make his suit jacket fit more comfortably over his shoulders, took the lead.

“Excuse me, we’re looking for Professor Charles Eppes.”

“That’s me.”

He pointed to himself and then his partner. “Special Agent Carter, Special Agent Anderson; we’re with the FBI.” They both pulled out their badges, flashed them at Charlie, then tucked them back away inside their jackets.

“The FBI?” Charlie spared a brief moment to observe that the FBI agents were getting younger and younger - and wondered if that was a side effect of him getting older - before his stomach clenched in fear as he thought that these agents might have come here to tell him that Don had gotten hurt.

“Yes. We’d like to ask you some questions about Angelo McBride.”

“Angelo McBride?” Charlie steadied himself with a hand on his desk, let his initial reaction bleed away as he wrapped his mind around the direction this visit had taken. Charlie had been Angelo’s thesis advisor until Angelo’s untimely death last semester. “Is this about his death?”

“Yes, it is,” Agent Carter said. “We understand that you were one of Mr. McBride’s professors.”

“Yes, Angelo had taken several classes from me over the past couple of years. Before he died, though, I was acting as his thesis advisor.”

Agent Anderson produced a small notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, flipped the notebook open to a fresh sheet of paper, and looked at Charlie. “Can you tell us anything about Mr. McBride’s behavior in the days immediately prior to his death?”

“Well, he, uh, he was extremely tired. He turned in an incomplete chapter, which was . . . very unlike him.” The two agents exchanged glances, and Charlie took the short break in their questions to ask one of his own. “I thought Angelo’s death had been ruled natural. A heart attack. Why is the FBI investigating it now?”

Agent Anderson said, “We have reason to believe that Mr. McBride’s death might _not_ have been natural.”

Charlie got a little bit lightheaded at that disturbing news. “Not natural? But . . . what reasons?”

Agent Carter frowned at him, as if he wasn’t sure how much he ought to reveal about their case, which pricked at Charlie’s pride. “You know that my security clearance is probably higher than yours, right?” It was petty to remind them of that, but he was tired, and besides, Don should have called him to let him know he was sending agents over to interrogate him. He’d have to give Don a piece of his mind about that later.

Agent Anderson gave Agent Carter an undecipherable look, then said to Charlie, “There have been three deaths under similar circumstances, all three men either worked at or attended CalSci. Because of the similarities in their deaths and their connection to CalSci, we’ve decided to take another look.”

Charlie dropped into his chair, fatigue evaporating at the sudden rush of adrenaline. Three . . . . He struggled to remember the other deaths. “Who else . . . ?”

Agent Anderson flipped back two pages in his notebook. “In addition to Angelo McBride, a Paul Schaeffer in Admin, and a Professor Carl Lebowski in the . . . .”

“Physics Department.” Charlie remembered hearing about Professor Lebowski’s death, because Larry had known him, but he hadn’t connected Angelo’s death with Lebowski’s, and he didn’t remember hearing about Paul Schaeffer. Didn’t know if he’d have thought anything untoward if he had, especially since Angelo’s and Lebowski’s deaths had been attributed to natural causes and had occurred several weeks apart. “Why are you just looking at this _now_?”

Agent Carter said, “It just came to our attention.”

“Can you tell us the names of any students that Mr. McBride was friends with?” Agent Anderson asked.

“I don’t . . . know. I didn’t know Angelo outside of class. He spoke of a, uh . . . .” Charlie broke off, unsure how the agents would take the information. Not that it was a secret, and the police probably already knew, anyway.

“Boyfriend?” Agent Anderson prompted.

“Yes. Angelo spoke of him once in a while, I think his name was Sean, but I don’t know his last name. Other than me, and of course Amita and Larry, I don’t know who else Angelo hung out with. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Agent Carter said. “Can you give us the last names of Amita and Larry?”

“Amita Ramanujan and Larry Fleinhardt. They, uh, they’re both professors here. Well, actually, Larry’s not here right now. He’s on sabbatical, on the, uh, space station. Amita was a student at CalSci. I was her thesis advisor a couple years ago.” Charlie knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself, the words just kept pouring out of him.

“Can you tell us where we can find Professor Ramanujan’s office?” Agent Carter smoothly interrupted, while Agent Anderson dutifully wrote the names down in his notebook, and then took down the office number when Charlie told him that Amita’s small, windowless office was located on the third floor of this building.

“So you never met this Sean?” Agent Carter continued the questioning.

“No.”

“Do you know if he was a student here?”

Charlie frowned. “I . . . no, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Agent Anderson said. “Were you familiar with Professor Lebowski, at all?”

“I knew _of_ him, because he worked in the same department as Larry, Professor Fleinhardt, but we weren’t close, or anything. Although, now that I think about it, Amita might also have known Professor Lebowski; she got her second PhD in Astrophysics.”

“All right, well, I guess that it’s for now.” Agent Anderson recapped his pen.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it, who might have killed Angelo and the others?”

Agent Anderson snapped his notebook closed, tucked it back into the pocket inside his jacket. “Not yet, Professor Eppes, we’ve only just started our investigation. Right now we just need to talk to people who knew Mr. McBride, as well as the other victims, and see what leads we can turn up.”

“Thanks for your help, Professor,” Agent Carter said, bringing the interview to a formal close, and the two men departed.

“Yes, of course.”

Charlie sat quietly after they’d left, staring at his cluttered desk, thinking about Angelo McBride and how little Charlie actually knew about his former student, about the bright future that might have been Angelo’s if his life hadn’t been cut short by what Charlie had thought was a heart attack. He should have questioned a heart attack in someone so young, but had thought nothing of it, other than the feeling of sadness one experiences when loss hits that close to you. And now three men were dead due to this . . . whatever it was.

Charlie wondered if that meant the FBI was looking for a serial killer that was targeting the CalSci campus. He tried to remember when Paul Schaeffer had been killed, to see if he could discern a pattern, then remembered that Don hadn’t warned him the FBI was looking into this case, even though Don was aware that Charlie had known one of the victims. Hadn’t warned him that there might very well be a serial killer loose on the campus, which was unlike Don. Charlie pulled out his cell phone and thumbed the speed-dial for Don’s cell. It went to voice mail, so Charlie left a message.

*~*~*

  
“Try Professor Ramanujan next?” Dean asked when they stood in the hallway outside Professor Eppes’ office.

“Yeah, she’s closest,” Sam said. “We passed a staircase back this way.”

Moments later they stood outside Professor Ramanujan’s office, her name on one of those cheap interchangeable plaques attached to the wall outside the door. When there was no answer to their knock, Dean tried the doorknob. It was locked. Sam read the schedule taped above the plaque.

“She has a class right now,” Sam said. He copied the schedule into his notebook. When he was done, he checked his watch. “Looks like she has a break between classes. If she comes back to her office, we’ve got about half an hour to kill.”

“Okay.” There was no way Dean could just stand here and wait for her, so it was a good thing they had other stops to make. “Registrar or Admissions?”

Dean watched Sam think, his head moving side to side as he weighed their options.

“Registrar. If we can get Angelo’s class schedule, we might be able to get a list of students who were in the same classes, maybe find out if any of them knew Sean.”

“Registrar it is,” Dean agreed, following Sam back to the stairs they’d just climbed.

Sam turned his head, checking each alcove as they passed the offices. “We just need to find the Administration Building. There’s probably someone in one of these offices we could ask for directions.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“Oh, yeah? What?”

Dean laughed as he waved the campus directory he’d snagged off Professor Eppes’ desk in front of Sam’s face.

Sam brushed it away and glared at him. “Knock that off, man, you sound demented.”

“You’re still just jealous,” Dean said as he flipped through the directory to the campus map.

Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean just grinned at him. “Find it yet?”

When they got to the Registrar’s Office, Dean smiled his ‘I’m harmless’ smile, ready to turn on the charm as he explained what they needed. However, most of the office staff were in a meeting, so unless they wanted to wait until the meeting ended, the only person they had to talk to was a student who worked in the office on a work-study program. His name was Brad. Dean knew this because Brad had given Sam the once-over when they’d stepped up to the counter, then smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Brad. How can I help you?”

Dean had wanted to tell him that Sam was already spoken for, thank you very much - and a glance at Sam had told him that Sam knew exactly what he was thinking - but a nearly imperceptible shake of Sam’s head and a heel to the instep denied Dean the satisfaction. Dean stepped back and let Sam lead the conversation, doing his best not to glower at the kid, since they needed him willing to share information. Within twenty minutes Sam had gotten Angelo McBride’s class schedule from last semester, as well as the rosters for each of those classes.

This time when they walked away with a list of student names, Sam was the one with the phone number in his pocket. As they made their way back across campus to Professor Ramanujan’s office, Sam whistled a jaunty tune that made Dean grit his teeth.

“He wasn’t even cute,” Dean said, which just made Sam grin.

“You don’t think so?”

If Sam’s grin got any wider he’d put out an eye. “You’re such a bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Whatever. You think she’ll be there yet?”

*~*~*

  
Charlie was talking to Amita when the two FBI agents returned to his office. He’d left the calculations he’d been using for Don’s last case on the whiteboard, even after his discussion with Amita a couple days ago, and Amita had been eyeing them speculatively. She hadn’t mentioned Don, or their date, or the way Charlie had left her house like a thief in the middle of the night, but Charlie was anxiously waiting for the next shoe to drop, so when the two agents, Carter and Anderson were their names, he thought he remembered, showed up in his doorway, Charlie was unduly happy to see them.

“Gentlemen, please, come in.” Charlie moved out from behind his desk and waved them into the room with an extravagant gesture. If anyone thought it odd, they didn’t remark upon it. “Have you met . . . ?”

Both agents and Amita shook their head. “Oh, well, Amita, these are Special Agents Carter, and Anderson.” Charlie paused both times to make sure he had the names correct. “Agents, this is Professor Ramanujan.”

“Ah,” Agent Carter said, smiling at Amita as he held out his hand, “we were just at your office looking for you. We were hoping Professor Eppes would be able to tell us how to find you.”

Amita slid off her perch on the corner of Charlie’s desk and smiled back as she shook Agent Carter’s hand. “Well, it looks like you’ve found me. What can I do for you?”

“The FBI is looking into Angelo’s death,” Charlie said.

Amita’s gaze was sharp when she looked at Charlie. “I didn’t know that.”

“No, I, sorry, I got caught up in . . . .” He gestured toward the pile of papers on his desk rather than toward the whiteboard, which he’d been staring at as if the answer to his problem was right at the tip of his fingers.

“We’d just like to ask you a few questions, if we could,” Agent Anderson said.

“Of course,” Amita said, “but I thought that Angelo died of natural causes.”

“That’s how it appeared, but we have reason to believe that might not be the case.” Agent Carter looked at Charlie. “Is it all right if we . . . ?”

“Yes, of course, please,” Charlie said. Agent Carter pulled out a chair for Amita, then the two agents sat down across from her. Charlie moved back behind his desk, sat down, and watched as they questioned Amita about Angelo. She was able to tell them Sean’s last name, Cipperly, and confirmed that he was a student at CalSci, but other than that, she was unable to tell them anything more than Charlie had. Charlie was both happy and sad about that; happy that he hadn’t been the only one to know so little about Angelo, and sad because, between the two of them, they had very little information to offer in the search for whoever had killed Angelo and the others.

Everyone glanced over at him when Charlie’s cell phone rang. He mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ and indicated that they should continue as he pulled the phone out of his pocket. He checked the screen and felt a frisson of excitement when he saw that Don was returning his call. He rose to his feet and moved away from the others as he raised the phone to his ear. “Hey, Don.”

“Hey, Charlie, listen, I don’t have much time, what’s up?”

“Oh, okay. I, uh, I just wondered why you didn’t tell me that the FBI was looking into Angelo’s death?”

Charlie heard Megan’s voice in the background, heard Don’s muffled voice respond before Don replied to him with a distracted, “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charlie. Who’s Angelo?”

Charlie frowned at that. “Angelo is my . . .was my grad student, I was his thesis advisor, he died last semester.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that now. Sorry.”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the others, but they weren’t paying him any attention. “That’s okay, I just, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, Charlie?” Don sounded annoyed, but Charlie was used to that, so he refused to drop it.

“Tell me that the FBI had opened an investigation into Angelo’s death.”

Don’s tone was sharp, but this time it wasn’t directed at Charlie. “What are you talking about, Charlie? What investigation?”

“There are two FBI agents here, right now, asking questions about Angelo’s death. They said that there’s reason to believe that his death, and the other two similar deaths, weren’t natural, as was originally thought.”

“FBI Agents? What are their names?”

Charlie told Don the names, speaking as softly as he could, then listened as Don instructed someone to run them through the FBI employee data bank. “There’s no Anderson,” Don said a moment later, “but there is a Carter. Tall Hispanic woman?”

Charlie swallowed hard. “No.”

“Okay, Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re not ours.”

“Uh huh.”

Charlie heard the sounds of Don moving, pulling his jacket on, background noises changing as he went from the bullpen to the hallway. “I’m coming, just, don’t hang up, okay?”

“Okay.”

Charlie’s fingers felt numb, but he managed to lower his hand so the phone was hidden beside his leg without dropping it. He walked back over to his desk, motions a little jerky and uncoordinated, and sat, the phone hidden in his lap beneath the desk. He was relieved that no one had paid him any attention, but then Amita glanced over at him and she frowned.

“Are you all right, Charlie?”

Charlie managed to crack a smile, though he wasn’t certain how sincere it looked. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I-I just . . . .”

“Was that Don?”

Charlie felt the blood rush out of his head. “What makes you . . . ?”

“Did you have a fight?”

The relief made him feel faint. “A fight, no. We . . . .”

Amita glanced over her shoulder at the whiteboard. “You didn’t bring up the last case again, did you, Charlie?”

“What? No.” Charlie glanced up to see the two agents, impersonators, staring between him and Amita with varying degrees of interest and confusion.

“You know, we should probably get going . . . .” the one who called himself Carter said. There was a little frown line in the center of his forehead, as if he was trying to read between the lines of Charlie’s and Amita’s conversation.

Charlie knew that he couldn’t let them leave.

“No!” Everyone looked a little surprised at his outburst, which made Charlie give a huff of nervous laughter. “I mean, please, not on my account. I’m fine, just a little, uh, little disagreement with my, uh, my brother. Besides,” Charlie added, doing his best to keep the men there, “this case, this . . . finding out who killed Angelo, it’s important to me, so, please, if you have any other questions, or if there’s anything that we, uh, that we can do to help . . . .”

The one who called himself Anderson folded his notebook and said, “Thank you, but I think we have all the information we need right now. If we have any further questions, we’ll be back, if that’s all right.”

Amita shrugged. “Certainly. Angelo’s death was a horrible thing, but it would be even worse if he was murdered. If you discover that he was, I’m happy to do anything to help bring his killer to justice.”

“Of course,” Charlie said, wondering what else he could do to keep them there. He pressed his fingers against his lips as the two agents - men - rose from the chairs, watched Anderson slip the notebook into an inside jacket pocket. “You know, I, um, I don’t recall if you said, are you with the LA branch of the Bureau?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Carter said, “Yeah.” He gave a little nod and turned to leave.

“Oh,” Amita said, “then you probably know Charlie’s brother, Don.”

The two men barely reacted, but Charlie could feel the tension building between them.

“Oh, I’m sure if they knew Don they would have mentioned it already,” Charlie said, tried to smile. “LA’s a big, uh, big . . . .”

“Field office?” Amita supplied, giving Charlie a curious look before turning her attention back to the two men. “Don’s an FBI agent, too.”

Carter’s eyes met Charlie’s and Charlie could tell that they knew, they knew that he knew. “Well,” Carter said, “the professor was right, LA is a big office. We’ll be going now.”

Silent communication passed between them in the split second they caught each other’s eyes, and then Anderson was following Carter towards the door, their movements sure and swift, but not rushed. “Thanks for your help,” Anderson said before he slipped out the door after the other agent . . . man.

Seeing them leave, Charlie was torn between relief and frustration.

Amita gave him a wide-eyed look and said, “What was that all about?”

Charlie held his hand up, silently asking her to wait, then lifted the cell phone to his ear. “Don?”

“Yeah, Charlie, I’m still here.”

“Did you hear that? They just left.”

“Okay, listen, Charlie, don’t follow them, okay?” Charlie snorted. “Can you tell me, did they touch anything?”

Charlie’s eye fell on the chairs the two men had been sitting in. “Yeah, they did.”

“Okay, I’m going to get someone over there to dust for prints and take down a description, okay?”

“Yeah, I, okay.” Charlie started to shake. “Don, are you, uh, are you still coming?”

“Yeah, buddy, I’ll be there in five minutes. Hold it together for me, okay?”

Charlie ignored Amita’s thoughtful frown, said, “Yeah, o-okay.”

*~*~*

  


“Shit!” Dean pounded the edge of his fist on the steering wheel. “God damn it! Why didn’t we know about Professor Eppes’ connection to the FBI?”

Sam was, apparently, not above stating the obvious. “Because we only ran background checks on the victims to see if there were any connections between them.”

Dean glared at Sam, though his touch was gentle when he turned the key in the ignition. “It might be too late to do us any good, but let’s run a background check on the good professor, see what else turns up.”

The ride back to the motel was made in silence. Dean seethed, angry at himself for not being more careful, for almost getting them caught. For nearly getting Sam caught. He glanced over, but Sam was staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. Dean couldn’t believe that their own disguise had tripped them up. It was a mistake they could ill afford, especially with that asshole Henrickson on their trail.

Back in the motel room, they emptied their pockets, dumping everything onto the small table they’d had to put a matchbook under so it wouldn’t rock, and then removed their suits. Dean threw his across the bed with a muttered curse and then pulled on jeans and a t-shirt with angry jerks. He lowered himself to the edge of the bed and reached for his boots.

Without a word, Sam draped both suits over hangers and hung them on the tilting clothes rack that served as a closet. Then he stood in the middle of the room, combed his fingers through his hair, pushed his bangs back off his forehead. He looked at Dean. “What now?”

Dean flipped through the papers they’d dumped on the table, found the list he was looking for. “You check out the professor, make sure we don’t have any other nasty surprises waiting for us.”

“Yeah, okay, and then?”

Dean tucked the list inside the campus directory, snatched his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Wait, Dean, where are you going?”

“Back to the campus.” He shoved his arms into the sleeves, steeling himself for the argument he knew was coming.

“Dean, you can’t! They’ll be looking for you.”

Dean forced a grin, tried to hide his concern that maybe this whole hunt had just gone FUBAR on them. “They’re not looking for me, Sammy, they’re looking for a Fed.”

Sam, as Dean had known would be the case, was not deterred. “They’ll have your description, Dean! It won’t matter that you’re not wearing a suit anymore.”

Dean knew that Sam was right, but he also knew that they had no choice, not if they wanted to catch this thing. They were caught between a rock and a hard place, and Dean hated that. “So what, Sam, you wanna just leave? Forget about the hunt?”

“No, of course not, but Dean, you cannot go back to the campus.”

“Got no choice, Sam, that’s where this thing is.” Dean held up the directory. “And we’ve got forty _live_ witness . . . .”

“Thirty.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Thirty, whatever. Maybe some of them remember what happened to them and can give us a bead on this thing.”

Sam was silent for a moment, then he said, “You’re not going to be able to interview all of them today.”

“Probably not. Too many on the list, plus some of them will be in class, but I figured I could start by crossing all the females off the list and go from there.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, good idea. So far all the murdered victims have been male. You know, there might be a way we can narrow the list down even further. Here, let me . . . .” Sam tugged the list they’d gotten from the helpful ladies at the health clinic out from between the pages of the directory and scanned it into the laptop. “The first thing I’m going to do is compare the class lists we got from the Registrar with this list, I’ll call you with any matches and you can start your search there.”

“Good thinking, college boy.”

Sam handed the hard copy back to Dean, but when Dean reached out to take it, Sam didn’t relinquish it right away. Dean jerked it out of Sam’s grip. “I’ll be careful.”

“You’d better be.”

Before Dean closed the door all the way, he poked his head back in. “Stay inside and keep the door locked. And call me when you have something.”

*~*~*

  
“Hey, Charlie.”

“Don.” Charlie waved at Megan, who looked up at him over her glasses and gave him a smile, nodded a greeting to Colby.

“Listen, thanks for coming in.”

“No problem,” Charlie said, though the invitation hadn’t been phrased as a request and Don had sent David over to CalSci to drive him to FBI headquarters. “What have you found out?”

“We ran the fingerprints through AFIS, got a hit. The search threw out some photos that match the descriptions you and Amita gave us. I’d like you to take a look at them, though, make sure we’re on the right track. Okay?”

Charlie wondered why Don hadn’t just sent the photos with David, but Don sounded stiff, formal, like he was already distancing himself, and that scared Charlie more than anything. “Yeah, okay.”

Don led Charlie into the conference room where two large pictures took up the entire screen. Their names were spelled out in big block letters beneath the pictures: Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester. Sam’s hair had been shorter when he’d stood in Charlie’s office that morning, bangs not falling into his eyes as they did in the picture, but except for the smirk, Dean looked just the same, despite the worn jacket he had on in place of black suit and tie.

“Is that them?” Don stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his voice was guarded.

“Yeah, that’s them.” Everyone who had followed them into the room the room let out a sigh, as if they’d all been holding their breaths, hoping Charlie would tell them that these two men were not, in fact, the two men who had been in his office earlier that day. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Guys?”

Megan gave Don a weak smile, then squeezed Charlie’s arm before she led David and Colby from the room. Even after they were alone Don didn’t speak right away. Charlie let the silence go on for several minutes until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Don?”

“Yeah, Charlie, it’s just . . . . These guys are fugitives; they’re wanted by the FBI.”

Charlie glanced back up at the pictures, remembered the two men who had stood in his office, asking him about Angelo’s death. They’d looked young for FBI agents, but they hadn’t acted like he thought fugitives from the law might. “What are they wanted for?”

“A lot of things,” Don said. “Some of it’s minor stuff, some of it’s not.”

Charlie swallowed hard, sat down on one of the tables before his legs gave out. “Tell me.”

Don ticked the charges off on his fingers. “Credit card fraud, breaking and entering, grave desecration. They’re suspected of torturing and murdering a young woman in St. Louis. They were picked up by the Baltimore police, but escaped custody when a cop was fingered for the murders they’d been charged with there. And I guess we can add impersonating a federal officer to the list. They were last seen in Milwaukee where they’re suspected of being behind a bank robbery that left several people dead. And as if all that wasn’t enough, it’s suspected that their father was some kind of paramilitary survivalist who taught his sons enough about weapons to be very dangerous.”

Charlie could barely take it in. He shook his head. “They didn’t . . . .” But that was a stupid thing to say, because how many people said things like, “He seemed like such a nice young man,” after finding out that someone they knew was a monster? Still, he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that the two men who had questioned him that morning were guilty of murder. “That doesn’t make sense. What does credit card fraud, breaking and entering, and grave desecration have to do with torture and murder? A-a-and bank robbery?”

“I don’t know, Charlie, escalation, maybe?”

Charlie couldn’t make sense of it, like a puzzle with some of the pieces missing. “I just . . . why would they be here? Asking questions about Angelo’s death? What could they gain by that?”

“I don’t know, but we’re looking into that angle, as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“We got the case files from LAPD on the three deaths at CalSci last semester that you told us they asked you about, and we’re reworking them from the beginning. Maybe we can figure out what their connection is to the deaths, or what they’re looking for.”

Charlie looked back up at the pictures. He didn’t look away when Don squeezed his shoulder, even though he jumped a little because he hadn’t heard Don move closer.

“Listen, Charlie, be careful, all right? I’m going to put an agent on you until we catch these guys.”

Charlie leaned into Don’s touch, something he rarely allowed himself. “Is that really necessary?”

“It’s just a precaution, but yeah, I think it’s a necessary one.”

“Okay. What about Amita?”

“We’ll put one on her, too.” Don pulled away from him. “Listen, I’ll probably know more about the fugitives tomorrow.” When he asked what Don meant, Don said, “As soon as we got a hit on AFIS, we got a call from Special Agent Henrickson. He’s been tracking them for the past couple of months. He’s on his way to LA.”

*~*~*

  
Sam didn’t even bother looking up when Dean pushed the door open and said, “Hey.” And he sounded a little distracted when he said, “Hey back.”

“You’re not being very vigilant there, bro.”

“You’re the only one with a key to the room. Besides, you just called and said you were pulling into the parking lot. And that you came bearing food.”

Dean took his jacket off and tossed it towards a chair, dropped the takeout bag on the end of the bed. “Didn’t want you to shoot me when I came in, not that there’s much chance of that since you’d have to _get up_ to get yourself a weapon.”

“I still could,” Sam said, and Dean heard the thunk as he laid the gun - previously hidden on the seat of the chair beside him - onto the table, “so don’t tempt me.”

Dean made a grunt of approval that Sam ignored. “Listen, I think I just found something hinky.”

“Hinky?” Dean stepped into the bathroom, left the door open so he didn’t have to yell to talk to Sam. “I’ll bet you twenty bucks my hinky is hinkier than your hinky.”

Sam did look up at that, and he caught Dean’s eye. “Hinkier?”

“Shut up.” Dean stacked Sam’s books and papers to make room for the food he’d brought back with him. “First, tell me about the Eppes connection.”

Sam snorted, leaned back in his chair. “Okay. I ran a check on Professor Eppes. Turns out, not only is his brother an FBI agent, the professor consults for them. And not just for them, for the NSA, as well.”

“Smart guy.”

“Yeah, he’s a genius, actually. And he wasn’t kidding when he said his security clearance was higher than ours.”

“Anybody’s would be,” Dean said, which made Sam smile.

“True.”

“Okay. So how’s that affect us, or the hunt?”

“It doesn’t. But I also did some checking on Professor Ramanujan, and I think we might have a problem here.”

“Tell me about it.” Dean waved his plastic fork at Sam as a reminder to eat. “I managed to talk to five guys on the list, thanks for narrowing it down, by the way.” Sam mumbled a, ‘you’re welcome,’ around his mouthful of egg roll. “One guy claimed he couldn’t remember anything, but the other four remembered spending time with a certain professor before they started feeling sapped of energy.”

Sam swallowed. “Let me guess, Professor Ramanujan?”

“Got it in one.”

“Well, that fits with what I found,” Sam said. He took another bit of the egg roll and chewed slowly.

“Which is?” Dean prompted. “Don’t keep me in suspense, man, what is it?”

“Professor Amita Ramanujan?”

Dean made a ‘hurry up’ gesture. “Yeah.”

“Is in Boston. Harvard, to be exact.”

“There’s two of them?”

Sam turned the computer around, showed Dean the picture of Harvard’s Professor Ramanujan, who bore a striking resemblance to CalSci’s Professor Ramanujan. “I don’t think so.”

“Huh. You think she’s our succubus?”

“The timing works. Professor Ramanujan was a grad student at CalSci until last spring. She started the fall semester as an assistant professor at Harvard.”

“You got an address on her?”

“In Boston?”

“Here, in LA, doofus.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there isn’t one. No address, no telephone, no bank account. It’s as if she doesn’t exist. At least, not here in LA.”

“Well, we know one place she seems to exist.”

“CalSci.”

Dean had that feeling he got when they were close, excitement and anticipation mixed with a healthy dose of fear. “Yep. Get eating, you’re gonna need your strength if we’re gonna break into her office tonight.”

Sam pulled one of the Chinese takeout containers closer, opened it and peered inside. “What are we gonna do if she happens to be there?”

“We should be so lucky.”

The class schedule that had been taped to the wall outside Professor Ramanujan’s office, which Sam had conveniently copied into his notebook, had indicated that her last class was over at four-thirty and that she didn’t have scheduled office hours that day. They pulled into the parking lot at six and, backpacks over their shoulders to make them look more like students - and to carry the supplies they’d need if she happened to be there - headed into the math building. The halls were empty and their footsteps echoed in the silence. Light shown from beneath a couple of the doors.

Dean led the way to the third floor, and down the hallway to Professor Ramanujan’s office, pulling his lock pick tools out of his pocket as he walked. Sensing that he’d gone too far, Dean stopped and Sam ran into his back.

“Dean, wha—?”

Dean shushed him with a gesture. He checked the next office and then they both backtracked, but there was no office with Professor Ramanujan’s name on it. “It’s gone.”

“Shit.”

Dean shoved his lock pick tools back into his pocket and swung the backpack off his shoulder. He unzipped one of the pockets and pulled out the student directory, flipped through it to the R’s. He ran his finger down the page until he found the spot where ‘Ramanujan’ should be. “Her name’s not in the directory anymore.”

“It’s leaving.”

Dean swore. He guessed that meant he’d been wrong, they hadn’t remained unaffected by its alteration of reality at CalSci. He wondered if the others who had met it would even remember that a Professor Ramanujan had been at CalSci for six months, or if it would disappear from their minds just as it had removed any trace of itself from the math building and from the directory. Dean shoved the directory back into the pack. “Why now?”

“We spooked it?”

“What was it staying here for? They don’t usually stay in one place this long. It wanted something, something it couldn’t get its psychic claws into.”

It clicked. “Eppes,” they both said.

“Fuck. Let’s get going.” Dean threw the pack back over his shoulder and they jogged down the hallway.

*~*~*

  
Charlie heard the scuff of a shoe in the chalk dust covering the floor and he couldn’t help grinning as he finished up the last part of the equation he was working on. “You’re back early. What happened, did Millie kick your ass at bowling, too?”

“I don’t bowl, hate the shoes, but Sam here’s a pretty good bowler.”

Charlie twirled around so fast he lost his balance and had to catch himself on the blackboard, leaving a hand print in the middle of the equation he’d just added to his cognitive emergence work. Dean and Sam Winchester, also known as Special Agents Carter and Anderson, stood in his garage. Instead of the suits and ties, they were dressed casually in jeans and worn jackets; they both carried a backpack.

Sam waved a greeting and shrugged off Dean’s comment. They still didn’t look like murderers, but that didn’t stop Charlie’s heart pounding hard from being startled, and not a little bit afraid.

“How, uh, how did you get in here?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Dean said, looking around the garage as if he were threat-assessing the place. “You know there’s an FBI agent out front?”

Dean’s impertinent demeanor filled Charlie with annoyance back up and he hoped he sounded as half as collected when he said, “Yeah, he’s, uh, he’s supposed to be guarding me. From you guys, actually. What do you want?”

Sam held his hands out in a gesture of peace. “We just want to talk, Professor.”

“Talk about what?” Charlie managed to fumble the chalk into the tray without dropping it, brushed the dust off his fingers to give himself something to do and to hide his shaking hands.

“About Angelo,” Dean said.

“Yeah, that’s what you said before, when you claimed to be FBI agents.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Dean just shrugged and turned away, but Sam said, “Look, we’re sorry we had to lie to you, but people don’t normally want to share information with us if we just walk in off the street.”

“What a shock.” The Winchesters knew that their cover was blown and they hadn’t made any violent overtures, so Charlie was feeling a lot more comfortable now. “Why are you so interested in Angelo, anyway?” he asked. The fact that the two brothers hadn’t changed their story even after having their true identities revealed roused his curiosity.

“We think we know what killed him, and the others,” Sam said.

“But you’re not gonna believe us.” Dean sounded bored, like he didn’t care whether Charlie believed him or not, but Charlie could tell that he was tense, and he hadn’t stopped casing the garage since they’d walked in. “And we need your help to stop it.”

That got Charlie’s attention. “My help? I don’t understand. Who killed them?”

“Not who, what,” Dean said.

Charlie hadn’t been this confused since he’d been asked to break down a sentence in seventh grade English class.

Sam came to his rescue. “A succubus.”

“A what?”

“A succubus. A demon that usually takes the form of a human female. It appears to men in, uh, erotic dreams and drains their psychic energy. Sometimes it leaves the men exhausted, but other times the succubus drains them until they’re dead.”

Charlie felt dizzy as the dream from a couple days ago immediately popped into his head. He remembered how sexually charged the dream had been, and how exhausted he’d been the next day. But still, what they were saying couldn’t possibly be true. “I’ve heard of a succubus, I just don’t believe they’re . . . .”

“Real? Yeah, we get that a lot.”

Charlie had to turn to see Dean, who was moving around the garage, checking the windows, bending down to check the floor.

“What’s he doing?”

Instead of answering him directly, Sam said, “We don’t have much time,” and proceeded to tell Charlie why they thought the three deaths were related, and why they thought they’d been committed by a succubus.

Charlie steadied himself on the corner of his desk. “Okay, assuming you’re not both nuts, which is a, a huge leap, and that succubuses . . . .”

“Succubi.”

“Whatever. Assuming they’re real, how do you stop it?”

“Iron,” Dean said, causing Charlie to twist his head around to find him in the shadows of the garage.

Charlie dragged his attention back to Sam, who continued his explanation. “Succubi can change their appearance, alter your perception of reality. They seduce you, get into your mind, discover what it is you desire most, and give it to you in your dreams, sapping your energy while you’re dreaming.”

“And you think, you think you know who’s doing this?”

“We think we know what form it took,” Dean said, his voice much closer to Charlie than he’d realized.

Sam held out a picture and Charlie took it from him. It was a photograph of Amita, she was smiling at the camera. He didn’t remember when it was taken, but she looked both happy and scared. “Amita.” He felt a little surge of indignant anger. “You can’t possibly think that Amita had . . . .”

Sam’s voice was soft. “Read the caption.”

Charlie read out loud, “Professor Amita Ramanujan, formerly of CalSci, is one of Harvard’s new crop of . . . . No. No. Amita didn’t go to Harvard, she decided to accept the position at CalSci.”

“Amita Ramanujan went to Harvard, the succubus assumed her form and took her place here, making you, and many others, believe that Amita had stayed. Sammy here did an internet search, there’s no record of an Amita Ramanujan living in LA. And we were just at CalSci to search her office, but it’s not there anymore.”

Charlie stumbled over to the couch on legs that felt like Jell-O. “That’s just . . . that’s not possible.”

Dean appeared out of the shadows. “We don’t have much time, we think it’s coming after you before it leaves town.”

Charlie’s stomach roiled, as if he’d eaten something bad. “Why me?”

“We think you’re the reason it was here in the first place. You must have presented quite a challenge to it, had some pretty good walls in place. It took it awhile to break through, but it finally did, right? You been having some weird dreams lately?”

Unable to speak, Charlie merely nodded his head. Those walls _should_ have been strong, thick and high, he’d been building them for the past fifteen years.

Dean pulled out his cell phone and handed it to Charlie, who automatically took it. Sam held out a piece of paper with Amita’s address near the Harvard campus, and a telephone number. Charlie pressed the buttons with numb fingers, then placed the phone to his ear. It rang four times before someone picked up.

“Hello?”

Charlie’s stomach dropped when he recognized Amita’s voice. “Amita?”

“Charlie?”

“Amita. H-h-how are you?”

“I’m doing well, Charlie. How are you?”

“I’m . . . .” Charlie laughed as he imagined himself telling Amita that a succubus had been killing people on campus. “I’m busy, you know, with my cognitive emergence work, and helping Don, but I, I just needed to hear your voice. I hope you don’t mind me calling this late.”

“No, Charlie, I don’t mind. I’m glad you called.”

“Me, too.”

“I’ve missed you, thought maybe you were mad at me for choosing Harvard instead of . . . you know.”

“No, no, I’ve just been . . .” _dating you_ “. . . busy, you know how crazy it can be with Don and classes and my cognit—.”

There was a smile in Amita’s voice when she interrupted him. “I get it, Charlie, you’ve been pretty busy.”

“Yeah, I have. So, uh, how’s Harvard?”

Amita laughed. “Great. Fun. Scary. Cold. You should come visit.”

“I will. When it gets warmer.”

Amita laughed again. “Chicken.”

Charlie saw Dean gesture from out of the corner of his eye. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m glad, I’m glad everything’s . . . .”

“I know, Charlie. Me, too.”

They disconnected; Charlie just sat there, confused, scared. Amita was in Boston, which meant . . . she couldn’t be here at CalSci. And then Charlie remembered the rest of his conversation with Don that afternoon.

“We need to hurry,” Charlie said.

“Yeah, that’s what we’ve been telling you.”

Dean’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Charlie, but he chose to be the bigger man and ignore it. “No, not that, because you need to leave, you need to get out of town.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, worried.

“You know a Special Agent Henrickson?” The way they stiffened told Charlie that they did. “He’ll be here, in LA, tomorrow.”

Dean swore. “Man, we do not have time for this shit!”

“We can’t think about that now,” Sam said, and heaved one of the backpacks to Dean.

Charlie watched with a sense of wonder and dread as Dean caught the pack out of the air and unzipped it with a savage yank, then pulled out a box of nails and tossed it to Sam. Dean pulled out another and tossed it to Charlie, who fumbled it before grabbing hold of it. “Let’s get to work then.”

*~*~*

  
“Hey, Charlie.”

Dean grimaced when Charlie dropped the chalk and nearly tripped over his feet as he turned around. “A-Amita! Did we, uh, did we have plans?”

“No.” Amita . . . the succubus, Dean corrected himself. The succubus smiled and swayed its hips seductively as it crossed the garage to Charlie. It trailed its fingers along the side of his desk and looked at him from under its eyelashes. “I just figured I’d stop by and see if you were busy.”

“Oh, well, no, I-I-I guess not. What, uh, what did you have in mind?”

Dean peered through the shadows until he found Sam, lifted his hand to signal, then swore, long and hard and silent, when he heard a third voice enter the conversation. Damn it! This hunt had been one cluster fuck after another.

“Hey, Charlie.”

“Don! What are you doing here?”

That’s just what Dean wanted to know.

“I assigned myself night bodyguard duty. Figured I’d get a free meal out of it and we’d call it even.”

“Well, isn’t that cozy.” The succubus was smiling, but its voice had a sharp edge to it that Dean didn’t understand.

“Amita, hi. I didn’t see the agent we assigned to you outside when I drove up.”

“Well, he must be there, right? I’m sure you just missed him because you weren’t looking for him.”

“Yeah, of course, I’m sure that’s it.”

Despite the plan going all to hell, they couldn’t wait any longer to spring their trap; they’d just have to hope that the unexpected presence of Charlie’s brother didn’t screw things up too badly. Dean signaled to Sam and they both emerged from their hiding places. Dean emptied a box of nails in front of the door that led outside, while Sam did the same to the door that led into the house. They’d laid a path of nails around the interior perimeter of the garage to trap the succubus inside, but not knowing which door she’d use, they’d had to leave both entrances open.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Don said as soon as he saw them, and reached for his gun.

Charlie reached out, as if he could grab his arm. “No, Don, don’t!”

The thing wearing Amita’s face snarled when it felt the iron circle snap shut around it. “You can’t hold me!”

“Bet you say that to all the guys,” Dean said, then stood his ground as it charged him. He pulled his jacket open to reveal the nails they’d stapled to his favorite t-shirt, another thing this bitch had to answer for. It veered off and dove for Charlie.

Charlie, face contorted with fear, retreated until his back hit the blackboard. The thing shrieked in pain when her hand touched Charlie’s chest, and the nail-shirt he wore hidden beneath his button down. Its hand was smoking when it pulled away from Charlie. It roared, and then it laughed, a sound that skittered down Dean’s spine like nails on a chalkboard.

“I just wanted a little taste,” it said. “He had such firm blocks, I knew he was hiding something big, something I could feed on for weeks.”

“Charlie, talk to me. What’s going on here, buddy?”

“This . . . thing is not Amita. It killed Angelo,” Charlie said, “and the others.”

The thing grinned with Amita’s face and it looked grotesque, even to Dean, who hadn’t known the real Amita. “At least they died with smiles on their faces. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“Leave him alone,” Don said, stepping closer to Charlie, his gun in his hand.

“Bullets won’t stop it, Don.”

It laughed again, bitter and frigid. “Such brotherly love. Did you know that Charlie has a big . . . wall inside his pretty little head? Ever wonder what he hides behind it?” the thing said.

“Stop it!”

The succubus ignored Charlie’s protest. “It took me a long time to break through the barriers, figure out what, or rather _who_ it was that would let me into his dreams. His deepest desire.” Its face flickered from Amita Ramanujan to Don Eppes as it reached out and brushed its fingers over Charlie’s throat, careful to stay away from the iron. “Tell me, was it good for you, too, little brother?” it asked in a parody of Don’s voice.

Dean wanted to take a shot, but his weapon wasn’t accurate at this range, and if he missed he might hit Charlie or Don.

“Get away from him,” Don said, but the thing just turned its attention to him.

Its eyes rolled back in its head as it spoke. “Your control is even greater, but your walls have already been breached. Little holes, leaking out all over the place, you stick your finger in one, spring a leak somewhere else.”

As it spoke its features melted away, then slowly, carefully reformed into someone else; into Charlie.

“Don’t let it touch you, Don!” Charlie warned.

“I’ve already touched him,” it said, and crossed the garage to Sam. It didn’t appear as though its feet touched the floor. “You, on the other hand, you practically scream it.” Charlie’s face slid smoothly into that of a young woman with long blonde hair, Jess. “We could be together forever, Sam.”

If anything, the change made Sam angrier, rather than weakening him. “You’re not Jess.”

“Don’t like her, then how about him?” Jess became Dean. “Or him?” Changed into an older man with dark hair and a beard, spoke with a deep voice, their father. “You know I love you, right, Sammy? I’ve always been proud of you, son.”

The fucking thing was playing with them now, trolling their memories for anything it could use to rattle them, trying to screw with their heads, screwing with Sammy’s head. “Hey, leave him alone, bitch!”

“Dean.” The succubus drifted closer to him, reached out to him with a hand that wasn’t his father’s, but looked so much like it. “You’ve been a good son, Dean. You’ve made me proud.”

“Fuck you, you’re not him,” Dean said. “You’re nothing, not on your own, that’s why you need to steal other people’s faces.”

“Like this one?” It turned into their mother, long blonde hair down her back, wearing a white nightgown, just like she’d looked the last night he’d seen her alive. It spoke with their mother’s voice. “I love you, Dean, and I want you to be happy.” And then with Sam’s face and voice it said, “I’ll never leave you, Dean. We can be together forever.”

“Sure, until you kill me,” Dean said. He brought the nail gun up and fired.

Across the garage, Don dove for Charlie and knocked him to the floor and safety.

The succubus roared in pain and swept its arm out, catching Dean’s forearm. Dean thought his arm might be broken where the succubus had hit him, and he wasn’t sure how many nails had hit it before the gun had been knocked from his grasp. Dean held his arm to his chest and yelled, “Sammy!” as he dropped out of the line of fire.

Across the garage, Dean saw Sam dive for the shotgun they’d hidden behind the couch. He worked the pump action as he rolled into position, then shot from his back on the cold cement floor. The shell loaded with iron filings caught the succubus in the back. Sam may have spent four years away from the hunt, and many years before that choosing to study or play sports rather than learn how to bow hunt or take target practice, but he was a great shot, Dean had to give him that.

Its human mask shimmered, and for a moment Dean could make out the fangs and claws before it turned to face Sam. From his new position on one knee, Sam calmly loaded the second shell and fired. This shot took it in what was left of its chest and it disintegrated with a loud screech that left Dean’s ears ringing.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck!” Don was on his knees, staring at the spot where the succubus had been before it disappeared, the gun still clutched in his hand.

Charlie came up to his knees beside Don, reached out to touch him. “Don, are you all right? It didn’t touch you, did it?”

“No, no, it didn’t touch me, Charlie, I’m fine.” Don glared at Dean. “What the hell just happened here?”

“It’s a long story,” Sam said.

“Then you’d better start talking.”

*~*~*

  
Charlie could barely wrap his mind around everything that had happened here this evening. That . . . thing had killed three people and molested an unknown number of others. It had pretended to be Amita and had finally managed to break down Charlie’s resistence enough to get inside his head, to see what he’d been hiding for so many years. His walls were crumbling, and Charlie didn’t know if he’d be able to shore them back up. And now everyone knew, they all knew what he’d dreamt about, his deepest desire, the one thing he knew he could never have.

As if in a dream, Charlie watched as Sam crossed the garage to Dean, laid the shotgun on the air hockey table and reached for Dean’s arm. Dean put up a token protest, but allowed Sam to check for broken bones.

“What was that thing?” Don asked.

“Succubus,” Sam said, distracted.

Don snorted. “Yeah, right.”

Charlie wanted to tell Don what had happened, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Finally satisfied with his examination of Dean’s arm, Sam turned to Don and told him the same thing they’d told Charlie earlier that evening.

“You two seriously expect me to believe that a succubus was responsible for three deaths and an unknown number of assaults on the CalSci campus over the past six months?”

“Hey, you saw it for yourself, man,” Dean said. “That thing wasn’t human.”

“Plus, Dean talked to some of the students it didn’t kill, and they all spent time with Prof—, with something that looked like Professor Ramanujan shortly before they started exhibiting symptoms of exhaustion.”

Don threw himself onto the couch. “How in hell am I supposed to write this up?”

“Join the club,” Dean said. “How do you think we ended up in this mess?”

“Grave desecration?”

“Angry spirit. Had to salt and burn its bones.”

“Breaking and entering?”

“Looking for information. Not like we can just walk up to someone and ask if they’ve seen an angry spirit hanging around.”

“Credit card fraud?”

Dean looked defiant; Sam looked guilty.

“This ain’t the kind of job that pays real well.”

“We only do that when we have to,” Sam added.

“But, how do you live?” Charlie asked.

“Sometimes Dean hustles pool, or plays poker.”

“Jesus.” Don ran his fingers through his hair. “Have you ever thought of getting a job?”

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that? Oh, that’s right, I did, but I couldn’t find one that would let me take time off whenever I needed to, to go hunt demons.”

“All right, smart ass, what about the murder charge in St. Louis?”

“That was a shape shifter,” Sam said.

“Oh, right, a shape shifter that just happened to look like Dean, here.”

“A shape shifter with good taste,” Dean said, and Charlie couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. It was totally inappropriate, given the circumstances, and slightly hysterical.

Don pushed himself off the couch and went to him. “Charlie, are you all right?”

“Fine, yes, sorry, I just . . . . It’s been a long day.”

Dean said, “Yeah, and speaking of, we need to get going before Henrickson shows up.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Don said, pointing at Dean.

Charlie clutched at Don’s arm. “Don, you can’t arrest them! They just saved my life. A-a-and they’re innocent!”

“They’re wanted on a federal warrant, Charlie, I can’t just let them go.” Don patted Charlie’s hand. “Look, they can explain everything to Henrickson, I’m sure he’ll see reason.”

“Can’t you pretend you didn’t see them? They weren’t even here!”

“I can’t do that, Charlie, I’m sorry. I have to take them in.” Don turned back to the brothers. “Look, guys, I’m so—. Where the hell are they?”

 

Epilogue

It took Charlie one week to finagle FBI resources so he could trace the cell phone Dean had handed him to call Amita. It took him three weeks and five nightmares before he let himself remember enough about that night to recollect that the succubus had touched Don’s mind, as well, and when it had done so, it had turned into Charlie.

That memory eased Charlie’s fear that Don would be disgusted with him once he realized Charlie’s secret, and gave him hope that Don wouldn’t reject him when he showed up one night with _The Pride of the Yankees_ , Don’s favorite baseball movie, and a six pack of beer.

*~*~*

  
The next time Dean and Sam stopped in at the Road House, Ellen handed them a package. “We’re not your mail drop,” she said, then slammed two bottles of beer down on the bar in front of them. “How you boys doing?”

“Good,” Dean said, taking a cautious sip of the beer. He hadn’t been kidding Jo when he’d said he was afraid of Ellen.

Sam opened the envelope and dumped the contents out onto the bar. Two credit cards in the names of Dean Carter and Sam Anderson with a brief note that said, “An account is set up for automatic payments. Call if you need anything. P.S. Don’t worry, no one else knows where you are. I only found you because I’ve got a good head for numbers.”

“Wow, that’s . . . .”

“Yeah,” Sam said.

*~*~*

  
Three months later Charlie got a post card with no return address on it. On the front was a picture of a house taken at night during a full moon, with the words, “Charleston Ghost Tours - Spencer House,” printed across the bottom. The back contained a small blurb about the house that read, “Margaret Trawley, mistress of Captain Jack Spencer, was killed by Spencer’s wife in a jealous rage. Her ghost is said to appear along the widow’s walk when the fog rolls in off the ocean.”

Scrawled across the back were the words, “Not anymore.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sori1773 for beta duties. She truly made this fic better, for which you should all be thankful, as well. *g*


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